


Rest for the Wicked

by Carmilla DeWinter (miladys_revenge)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Q (James Bond), F/M, Internalized Acephobia, James Bond Needs a Hug, Magical Realism, Other, Post-SPECTRE, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28430466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miladys_revenge/pseuds/Carmilla%20DeWinter
Summary: James Bond had really thought he could do retirement. However,if he wanted to appear in any way like a normal person while having an active sex life, he had to skip sleep or food and still exercise a lot.Or: Wherein the author speculates that there's a reason why 007 has survived as long as he did, and it's not easily explained by science.
Relationships: James Bond & Q, James Bond/Madeleine Swann
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Rest for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> I started the first draft of this fic almost three years ago, when I was reading a lot of 00Q. I've meandered towards other London-based fandons since then and only recently remembered this fic was still on the hard drive somewhere.  
> High time to post, then, before the new movie comes out.

James Bond really had thought he could do retirement. And at first, it had been easy. He and Madeleine were busy travelling southern France and Italy, where there had been swimming and climbing and healing to do. After Christmas, they'd returned to London and had begun turning his flat into a home. They'd picked out furniture, he'd painted the walls in the little office space as to her specification, then assembled the furniture. By January 15, she'd found a temp job at a reputable clinic, and James was out of things to do that weren't exercising.

Because here was the caveat: If James Bond wanted to appear in any way like a normal person and not vibrate out of his skin with superfluous energy while having an active sex life, he had to skip sleep or food and still exercise a lot. Or he'd have to seek life-threatening injury on a regular basis. Drinking himself into a stupor also did help by making his body repair his liver.

Therefore, appearing to be normal was a nigh impossible feat with a rather horny live-in girlfriend who was also a medical doctor.

The first one to notice was Q. Bill Tanner and his wife Cynthia, who was with the MOD, had invited everyone from the Spectre debacle to celebrate its end. By now, Mallory was reinstated, after first being under investigation for C's death. Thankfully, Spectre had not been amused about Blofeld né Oberhauser, whose personal vendetta had cost them the installation in Morocco. Therefore, after Q's tech minions had supplied Interpol with evidence of C's and Oberhauser's co-operation, Oberhauser had been executed by a team of mercenaries while being transported to a more secure location.

Apart from that particular mole, much was right in the world for once. James sipped champagne while Madeleine hit it off with Eve. Good. Everyone needed friends. Bonus points were that Madeleine wasn't hanging onto James while chatting to the other woman.

Around ten, Q sidled up to him to stare out of the window down to the quiet Belgravia side street. The boffin was welcome company. Despite giving off a slightly camp air, he very much did not desire James, which made his presence a balm right now.

“Are you alright?”

“Excuse me?”

“You've only had one of the canapés. That is very little for a human being of your size.”

So James was bracing for Madeleine's usual reaction to slight tipsiness. So what? “May I remind you that Eve and I handed you most of the food you consumed tonight.”

“That just proves that your last psych evaluation was accurate.”

“I'm fine, Q.” James offered a little flirtatious smirk. “Or do you wish I weren't?”

Q did that little nervous laugh of his. “Not at all, Double-, er, Bond.”

The reminder stung, but James didn't let it show on his face. He was a civilian, now.

“I'd be glad to hand off the mothering to someone more competent,” Q added. Apparently he had his doubts about Madeleine being up to his standard of fussing.

“Is there anyone more competent than you?” James teased back.

They continued to trade banter until Madeleine interrupted them. She continued to glare at the poor boffin for the rest of the evening, as if jealous. At least, Q seemed to commiserate with Eve, the only other single person present.

The second person to catch on was Felix Leiter, on one of their infrequent phone calls. James had retreated to a bar for that, because Madeleine was worried about his liver, even though it was in perfect working condition, thanks to her.

“Are you okay, man?”

James downed the rest of his Martini. “What makes you ask?”

“Just. You don't sound as deliriously happy as I'd expect. You been listening to me rant for a solid hour now, and you've yet to suggest that you want to go back to Madeleine.”

“She's out with Eve.” Speaking of which, he could call Q. Maybe the boffin would be amenable to drinks after work on a semi-regular basis. He'd seemed to relish James's habit of hanging out in Q-branch between missions, after all.

“You shouldn't sound so relaxed about a girls' night out, either,” Felix interrupted the musings. “Not this early in a relationship. With a gorgeous woman seventeen years your junior.”

“So I'm one of those people who don't drop their friends when they find a relationship. Been there, done that, learned better.” James waved at the bartender for a refill.

“Man. I don't know. You just sound kinda off. And I suppose it's a lot at once. Having her move in with you and retiring on the same day. What are you doing when she's at work, anyway?”

“Reading.” Or he wished he were, at any rate, but he couldn't sit still for more than one chapter per day, what with Madeleine demanding he eat regular meals in her presence _and_ have sex with her at least every other day.

“You can't read all day for the next thirty to forty years.”

True. But James hardly got any reading done, due to Madeleine's appetite, and his mind never calmed down any more, so even a meditative run was an exercise in futility. Really, the bad caffeine overdoses of his youth had had him less wired than he currently was. Therefore, he also wasn't able to effectively calculate how bored he'd be this time next year.

“Go to that M of yours and ask for a teaching job, James.”

Making sure his replacement was up to scratch actually sounded like fun, but Madeleine would hate the thought.

Thus, not even three months into not-so-blissful togetherness, Madeleine noticed something was off.

They were post-coital on a Thursday evening when she didn't snuggle up to him but turned to lie on her side, head propped up, to watch him with a small moue of discontent.

He mustered a smile, although he needed her to go to sleep so he could sneak outside for a midnight run. “Everything okay?”

“I should be asking that question.”

He raised his brows.

“You don't ever initiate any more.”

After a mental count, he had to concede the point. He didn't. Because he'd really, really like to finish reading the SciFi trilogy he'd started two weeks ago. But how to explain?

“Is it because of the baby shower at Cynthia's?” she asked before he could come up with something that didn't involve confessing about incubi.

However, he hadn't liked Madeleine going all googly eyed when recounting the cute presents, that much was correct. He cleared his throat, lacking an answer. He'd yet to tell her that he'd made sure he was shooting blanks a long time ago. No one needed to inherit his fucking curse.

She sighed. “You don't want children.”

“No?” he ventured. “Not of my own. We can talk alternatives, as long as I can watch.” He added an unrepentant grin she ignored.

Really, he was willing to negotiate. Maybe running around after a small human would tire him out sufficiently. As long as it wasn't his DNA being passed on, anything was fair game.

The moue turned into an actual frown. “If it's not that, then you don't want me any more.”

Ah. “I do want you here,” he said, reaching out to caress her arm. Resentment over the too frequent demands for sex aside, he did. “You're the perfect fit for me and my pitiful attempts at normal.” He loved how independent she was, how headstrong, and how she didn't lose her nerve in the face of utter chaos or his perimeter checks. Also, on the rare occasions they weren't having sex, he got regular hugs, which he hadn't allowed himself to miss for years. Her hugs nearly convinced him that they were his due rather than an unearned bonus.

Because she was slowly losing some of her malcontent air, he tapped her on the nose in an attempt at being playful. “No other woman could compare.”

She blinked and shuffled away to sit leaning against the headboard. Shit. What had he said to make her doubt him? Not wanting to lie down while she analysed him, he also sat. Beside her, so she couldn't look him in the eye too much. It took some effort to let his arms rest on his legs instead of crossing them.

“Is it Q?” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“He is in love with you. You must have realized that. Eve said he got on a plane for you, when he met us in Austria.”

Oh, James had noticed. But then, Q flirted while never even having seemed to notice James's two attempts at an actual seduction. The boffin was ridiculously devoid of sexual desire. Thus the whatever-it-was Q felt made their interactions a little awkward sometimes, but Q still came back for more, so James could bask in his undemanding presence. “There's nothing going on there.”

“You flirted with him, at the party.”

“I can't not flirt,” he pointed out. Making people desire him came as naturally as breathing to a being like him. He didn't have to desire them back to feed on their energies. “I'm not lusting after him.”

“But are you lusting after me?” she asked, spot-on as usual.

So. What to do? Some honesty probably was in order. “I rarely lust after anyone.” He offered a lopsided flirtatious smile and took her hand. “It's usually strong personalities that utterly captivate me.” That should pacify her.

“Is it? Help me here, James.” She kissed his knuckles. “Why are you having sex with me if you aren't into me?”

She wouldn't believe the truth, would she? He'd gotten into her pants because he'd needed the energy, what with skipping supper and the subsequent fight on the train. At a loss, he looked away. Would this conversation have happened with Vesper, a few weeks down the road never travelled? Maybe a little later, because both the digitalis and the torture had taken their toll.

“James.” Her tone turned cool, the grip on his hand near crushing. “Look at me, please.”

He couldn't, for fear of what she would see.

“What aren't you telling me, James?”

Just another outrageous story from a liar like him.

The slap came as no surprise. It still stung, more his feelings than his face, because really, his body was so wired, it was glad to have to repair some damage. He moved his chin to test for damage out of reflex.

“Oh my god,” she said, voice thick. “I'm sorry.”

“I've had worse, really.” He offered a mostly sincere smile and took her hands. “And no need to worry. I like what we do. In bed or elsewhere.”

She sniffled and looked at him. “But not as often as I do.”

Squeezing her hands, he looked at them rather than her face. “It depends.”

For a few minutes, they both were quiet.

Then, Madeleine sighed. “What optimum frequency are we talking about here? Once a week, twice a month?”

Something must have shown on his face, because she added, in a very small voice, “Less?”

He tilted his head, fixing her with his patented charming gaze. “As I said, it depends.” He'd just have to read her better and at least look like it was his idea first. “We could set fixed dates and turn it into a bit of role play. Ma'am.”

Another sigh proved that she was neither into role play nor into this attempt at levity. “But can I trust you to tell me when you're not interested?”

Shit. Shit, fuck. He would rarely be interested unless he very carefully tailored his diet for maximum efficiency nutrient intake, meaning an endless parade of low calorie protein shakes instead of the perfectly nice meals he'd planned to cook for her. Or he'd have to skip on sleep, which was not wise if he wanted to keep his wits about him. Even a combination of the two wasn't what he considered the good life, unless he went back to active duty with MI6. So, no, she couldn't trust him to be entirely honest.

“I don't think I can do this any more if you won't promise me honesty.”

Oh. No. She couldn't just yank the rug out from under him like that. They had a good thing going here, didn't they? He readjusted his grip before she could wriggle away. “Madeleine. Please.”

“James. I won't live like that, being suspicious of your every move.”

Okay. Right. “Just because my libido isn't as high is yours doesn't mean I don't enjoy what we're doing. But,” he was laying himself bare here, “that schedule idea does sound interesting.”

For a while, she studied his face. “If it were a matter of having lost a spark, I'd be all for that, James. But I know how your brain works. You'd agree to anything up to twice a week just to keep me happy and spare me a bad conscience.”

She'd got him there.

“I have to think about this,” she declared.

“Alright.” He busied himself with the duvet, hoping he could entice her to snuggle. He did love holding her.

She refused even to be kissed good night, which told him all there was to be said.

The next day, he managed to skip breakfast, because she left for work earlier than usual. Still suffering from too much energy, he went for a round of parkour. After that, he actually finished the first book of his trilogy until Madeleine returned. She avoided any attempt at conversation and was packed by six. He drove her to the hotel of her choice, belonging to some business chain instead of something a little more cosy or luxurious. On the way back home he bought all the scotch he could carry and got roaring drunk.

On Saturday, he woke up around noon with not even a twinge of a headache. He went for another run and found some Thai take-away midway through because he was actually hungry for the first time in a week. As there really was nothing he could do about the situation, and his insides felt nicely still to boot, he snacked on the accumulated fruit in the fridge while inhaling part two of the trilogy.

Just past ten in the evening, Q called him. Highly unusual, because Q was very much a text based creature.

“I'm retired.”

“Believe it or not, I was aware of that. But I just finished a long chat with Eve.”

“And?”

“She's friends with Madeleine.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“So they had a girls night in yesterday.”

“I really don't want to hear about it. Bad enough that Eve came running to you with the details. If I needed a pick-me-up speech or someone ripping me a new one, I'd prefer Felix Leiter for it.”

Q sighed. “Eve called me because she thought you might profit from a specific kind of resource.”

“You really believe your tech can solve this?”

“It has nothing to do with tech, Bond. I also volunteer at an advice site.”

“So you could have just sent me the link.”

A helpless little laugh. “I could have. But sometimes it's nice to hear you're not alone.”

“I'm not gay, if she implied that.”

“I didn't think you were. So. The site is an international collaboration for advice on asexuality.”

Oh. James blinked. Well, Q's ongoing weird flirting actually made some sense now. On the other hand, James was suddenly quite angry at the lot of them for trying to diagnose him. Just so he could fit into a neat little box. “That's not a term I'd apply to myself.”

“Obviously. But if you chose to pick a related term or if you had any questions about any of it, I just wanted to let you know that you can ask me. I'm also pretty good at bestowing hugs with no ulterior motives, or so Eve and the meet-up group tell me.”

James breathed a couple of times. Q might have been an interfering bastard, but one could appreciate the balls it took to come out about something like this to a supposedly hypersexual former co-worker.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Good night, then,” James said.

“Good night, Bond.”

James actually went to sleep just past midnight, woke at eight, had breakfast because he was feeling peckish, went for a run, read the last part of his trilogy, cooked dinner, missed Madeleine's teasing for the slightly burnt casserole and her insightful conversation, and then did research on asexuality and related concepts. Could he try for a polyamorous arrangement with Madeleine and someone else? Or an open relationship?

He messaged her, asking to talk on Monday night.

_Not in the flat_ , she answered. Instead, she suggested the Italian restaurant on the ground floor of her hotel and promised to make a reservation.

It being a weekday night, the place would be packed with groups of professionals travelling for work. James checked their menu online and decided that both the food and the alcoholic beverages would be up to standard. He picked a blue suit that would fit right in with the business crowd, and was pleased to find that Madeleine had dug out her green sheath dress with matching jacket. He could spend hours admiring her poise in that.

She let him kiss her cheek.

“You look amazing.”

More than her tight little smile, the subdued buzz of her once flaring attraction told him how uncomfortable she was.

He got the chair for her. They were too quiet while they waited until the order was placed and he had a Martini for fortification.

“So, talk,” she ordered after a two sips of her Campari soda.

“Q called me on Saturday.”

She nodded.

“So Q came out to you first? No fair.”

“James.” She pursed her lips.

Not in the mood for banter? Bad sign. “Anyhow. You misdiagnosed. But I think I would appreciate that schedule. With, let's say, one set date per month and room for negotiation, if the mood struck.”

“You mean, if it struck you.”

He gestured. That much should have been obvious. “I'm aware that would be unfair to you.”

She frowned, but didn't disagree.

The waiter interrupted with the food, and they had a pleasant ten minutes chatting about their respective dishes and wine selection. On any other night, James might have stolen one of her fried gamberoni and made a joke about shared garlic breath just to make her laugh.

He was under no illusions he'd need to share garlic breath tonight, or that she would actually move in again right away, but he missed her presence with a physical intensity that surprised him. He wanted to hold her. Especially as unhappy as she was looking when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

They were waiting for dessert when he resumed the actual conversation. “We could go for an open relationship or some sort of polyamorous arrangement.”

She seemed too baffled to even blink for a minute, then she downed the rest of her wine. “You're suggesting I cheat on you.”

“It wouldn't be cheating if I suggested it in the first place.”

She rubbed her forehead. “Let me think about it until we're done eating.”

So he smiled at her in encouragement. They'd hit a snag, they would get over this, even though he hated having to talk it out, especially in a restaurant.

Anyway. He dug into his crème brulée with less gusto than he actually had, because she was picking at her tiramisu, which was unlike her. Whenever he looked at her, she offered a small distracted smile in return.

The waiter fetched the plates, took orders for a digestif, set down their respective drink of choice. Sambuca for Madeleine, Macallan for James.

Again, Madeleine downed hers in one go. “I don't know if you realize how much of a… a clusterfuck we're in, here.”

That did not sound very promising. At all. “Madeleine…”

She held her hand up to stop him. “You will listen, James. I love you, but you haven't said it back once. I realize you're bored. You might need to do your running for a reason” – so she'd noticed – “but that's just to tire yourself out, not what you'd do if you actually had the choice. I realize you need to use your creative problem solving capabilities somewhere, and you need to feel useful. I obviously can't make you feel useful by asking for sex. God knows I've tried to distract you from your troubles in the hopes you'd get over them and be the partner I hoped for. Someone with shared experiences to tame each other's demons.”

He had, for once, not even a remote clue what his face was doing, because… his was a demon that would never be tamed.

“Can you tell me what would be left of us if we removed sex from the equation?”

Shoulder rubs and home-cooked meals and lazy endless Sundays spent talking, like they had done in the beginning? “I am trying to figure out how to be a partner to you, here.”

She sighed. “I know you believe that, but if I returned, you'd still be bored out of your mind. You're going to resent me because I don't want anything to do with spy games, while you need to serve England almost as much as you need to breathe.”

There was a solution for that. “I could find work with MI6 that isn't spying.”

“Then come home and, what, cuddle on the couch?” She sighed. “Because that's the second half of the problem, James. I'm afraid that what you really want back is… an idea. The promise of company and regular hugs, maybe, now that you had a taste. Because I suspect that you're very indifferent about who is providing the little bit of sex that you actually want.”

James eyed his very empty glass, because he couldn't protest her rather apt analysis. “You really did learn dissection well, back at the Sorbonne.”

“I also know how men look who want me, and how those look who want something from me.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I'm sorry, James. I should have realized earlier that trying to keep you interested with sex was a matter of me trying to save sunk costs. But I'm not ready to invest more.”

Right.

What was it with too insightful women ripping him to pieces in restaurants?

While she stood to settle her part of the bill at the counter, he sipped the rest of of his drink. So – to get drunk or not to get drunk, that was the question.

He fished his phone out of a pocket and called Eve.

“One guess as to who called dibs on my time,” she said. “Talk to you later, James.”

Right.

Texting Q it was.

_Want to get drunk?_

_I take it your date with Madeleine went as badly as Eve expected._

James blinked at the message for a moment. How come they had all conspired against him? Trading gossip and making his plans for retirement go up in flames before he even smelled the smoke? Was it something people under forty did or just the benefits of a closely knit group of friends?

_Never mind,_ he finally answered.

_I didn't refuse, did I? You may come by and drink yourself under my table, if you require company._

How magnanimous. Should he just wander over to the hotel's bar? Because he really couldn't look at his place right now. Not at the curtains Madeleine had bought, or the bloody stylish shelf she'd insisted on, or the fucking printed out selfie he'd taken of them both in Taormina. _I won't bother you, then._

_Yes you will. I insist. I have Cachaca, sugar and limes. I also own a litre of rainbow Absolut Eve gave me as a joke._

_I assume you have ice and a shaker._

_Obviously. But no martini glasses._

So. James could find some vermouth and a fitting glass on the way there, because he really didn't need anything to drink that reminded him of the women who'd left him.

Q preferred space over a prestigious neighbourhood and short commute, and therefore occupied the entire upper floor of a dingy building near Paddington station that housed a Chinese take-out restaurant at street level. The customized security measures had probably cost a hundred times more than the Ikea furniture Q favoured.

“Vermouth,” stated Q instead of a greeting. He was wearing faded jeans and a hoodie advertising Stark Industries.

“For vodka martinis.”

“If you must. I'll have mine with Bitter Lemon.”

So Q had a sweet tooth. He sipped at his long drink from a Caipirinha glass without seemingly realizing that what he was doing was a crime to style – much like the rest of his life – while James mixed up an entire shaker of his drug of choice and had two before feeling up to asking the obvious.

“You're friends with Madeleine, too.”

“It might surprise you, but she and I are actually in the same age group.”

“That wasn't an answer.”

“I count as Eve's best gay friend, no matter the specifics, so it was inevitable to land in the same social bubble. We can find things to talk about that aren't you, and she can be acceptable company once she forgets that she is jealous. ”

“You don't manage to fill the stereotype of best gay friend very well.”

Q shrugged. “It is not a role to aspire to.” He downed the rest of his drink. “Especially if one is not, actually, gay.” There was a hint of bitterness there. Obviously, Q had been disappointed by one or more males that fit the description.

By drink four, the cats came to investigate James. The black one – Crowley – sniffed at his trouser leg and ambled off again, while the white one – Aziraphale – rubbed her fur all over the dark blue wool.

“Video game characters?”

“You don't know _Good Omens,_ ” Q said. He seemed taken aback, as if James had asked after the Queen's name. “How haven't you read _Good Omens?_ ”

James shrugged. “What kind of book is it?”

“Fantasy. Extremely funny.”

James downed his fifth drink of the night and had to mix a new batch.

“It's about an angel and a demon -”

James scoffed. Demons again. Ha.

Q looked at him oddly. “I haven't even told you about the funny part yet.”

“Urban fantasy's not my cup of tea,” James said. “Too inaccurate.”

“Huh. That would be the point, I think,” Q continued, sounding out the vowels very carefully. Obviously, he did not hold his liquor well. “Until it isn't. One shouldn't want asexual characters in books that are inaccurate by nature, no?”

Again, James emptied his drink and stared morosely at the olive-less bottom of his glass. Should've bought some. “Is that your way of making me talk about what happened with Madeleine?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I don't.”

“How very surprising.”

They sipped in silence for a while. The cats came and demanded to be pet, the white one again pestering James until he let her hop onto his lap and shed all over his nice blue suit.

“This is why jeans and cheap cotton,” Q explained sagely.

Well. “Next time.”

Q raised his glass in a toast. “Here's to that.”

Around midnight, the shaker was empty again. James levered himself up from the kitchen table and grabbed it. “I need to make more.”

“I think you rather need a hug instead of more alcohol,” Q objected. “Which is why you came here of all places. But you won't admit it.”

“Is that a dare?”

“Simple observation.” The serious demeanour was undermined by a hiccup.

“Hug away, then.”

Q stood with carefully controlled motions and shuffled into James's space. Took the shaker out of his hand and set it on the table with too much force. He gave James a once-over, then wound his arms around James's middle and leaned in until his chin rested on James's shoulder.

Well. Q was warm, more solid and less pointy than expected. He smelled like sugary drinks and something James suspected was conditioner.

Equally carefully, James rested his hands on Q's shoulders. Q did something with his weight so James was, in fact, leaning on Q as much as Q was leaning on him, which was. Rare.

“Th's nice,” Q murmured. “I don't get to hug many big people.”

“Hmm?” It was too easy to bury his nose in that particular mop of hair as opposed to Madeleine's sleek strands.

“The girls at the meetup group tend to be on the shorter side, and the blokes usually aren't too amenable. Male socialisation and all that.”

It really was nice.

After a few minutes, they disentangled by mutual silent decision.

“You may sleep in my guest room,” Q said. “I can probably lend you something to wear.”

There was an oversized T-shirt with a wolf in front of a full moon printed on it. “Don't ask. As soon as I saw it, I knew dating him had been a mistake.”

So Q had some sense of style, after all. James accepted the shirt anyway, let himself be equipped with a new toothbrush, towels, an extra quilt and a big bottle of water. Fussy Q at his best, not even slightly hindered by inebriation.

Eventually, Q retreated into his bedroom with his own bottle of water and the cats. James downed half the bottle of water, then settled into the miniscule guest room.

He fell asleep fast and woke up every ninety minutes with demands from his bladder or his brain for more water. One time, when it was almost light outside, he registered Q looking in on him, adjusting the quilt and inviting him to mope the day away.

Claws clicking on hardwood soon announced the arrival of the cats, who both curled up on the foot end of the mattress.

When James finally managed to crawl awake around eleven, he had a hangover.

He hadn't had a hangover since the Skyfall incident.

Wow. He was all normal, for once. He'd actually have to monitor his alcohol consumption in the presence of the Quartermaster.

A hangover was probably a foolish reason to grin at a couple of sleepy cats, but nevertheless, here he was. As soon as the headache was gone, James would be able to think clearly.


End file.
